


All in the Game, Round Two - Up From the Abyss

by clgfanfic



Category: Counterstrike (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stone is captured and brainwashed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in the Game, Round Two - Up From the Abyss

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Ouch! #13 under the pen name Jamie Hector. This is based on the Equalizer episode "Splinters."

**Paris, France**

**Headquarters, Addington International**

**0900 Hours, Monday**

 

Alexander Addington set the phone back into its cradle and looked up at his assistant, Helene Previn.  "That was Teague, in security.  It seems our old friend Konrad Strand is up to his old tricks again.  Get me Peter Sinclair."

Helene nodded and reached for the phone.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Less than an hour later, Peter Sinclair sat across from Addington.  They waited for a moment as Bennett poured them coffee, then offered Peter a fresh butter croissant, which he accepted with a grateful nod.

"Teague sent this up," the industrialist said, handing Sinclair a file folder.

Peter took a bit of his croissant, then accepted the file, flipping it open and reading as he ate.

"So, Strand has finally surfaced," he said when he was done.

Alexander nodded.  "And it looks like he's up to no good."

"But there's nothing here to suggest that he's—"

"Oh, come on, Peter.  You can't honestly believe that Konrad Strand has turned over a new leaf, now can you?" Addington asked.

The ex-Scotland Yard detective skimmed over the information again, then looked up at Addington.  "No, I don't, but at the same time, there's nothing illegal about starting a new business."

"Pharmaceuticals?  He's even hired some of our own people away to work for him!  He's plundered our research!"

Peter sighed.  "Alex, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to find out what's really going on here, because you can be sure it's more than meets the eye when Strand's involved," the billionaire stated determinedly.  "I want you to tell me what Strand's game is this time, because I know he's up to no good."

Sinclair stood.  "Well, it can't hurt to know what's going on.  I'll get on it," he said, handing the file back to Addington and turning to leave.

"And Peter?"

Sinclair turned back, meeting the older man's eyes.  "Yes?"

"Be careful.  Please.  Strand is a very dangerous man."

Peter nodded, a half-smile on his face.  "Yes, I remember.  We'll start with the facility in Toronto, see where it takes us."[1]

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

**Denver, Colorado**

**Psi-Pharm Laboratories**

**1000 Hours, Monday**

 

In a well-appointed office, Konrad Strand sat, reading over the preliminary results of the Splinter Process.  He smiled and nodded to himself, then leaned over and punched a button on his phone.  A moment later a man's voice said, "Hello?"

"Gentlemen," Strand said, "it appears the operation is underway.  Addington has found the information we planted and set the game in motion.  I should have something to show you very shortly."

"And the preliminary tests have all been concluded?" another masculine voice asked over the speaker.

"Yes, they have.  The process can accomplish everything I promised.  But why take my word for it?  Within a few days you'll be able to come to Denver, for a… final demonstration, shall we say?"

"Excellent.  Let us know when you're ready.  We'll be there," the first voice replied.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

**Toronto, Canada**

**Knador Laboratories**

**0215 Hours, Tuesday**

 

Sitting in a midnight blue Suburban, Peter, Stone and Gabrielle pulled on black ski masks, which matched the black pants and long-sleeve black sweaters they also wore.

"Everyone ready?" Peter asked.

"Always," Stone replied.

"Yeah," Gabby added, her grin clear even behind the mask.  "What do they call this, Peter?  Breaking and entering?"

"All right," Sinclair said, ignoring her tease, "we go in, we find the files that were taken from Addington Industries, and we leave.  Hopefully without tipping our hand."

"Naturally," Stone replied, his tone also teasing.

Sinclair sighed and shook his head; his teammates were having too much fun.  "Let's go."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Inside the dark building, the threesome moved silently along a dim hallway.  Stone held up his hand, fingers curled into a fist, causing the other two to stop behind him.  Then the former SEAL moved forward slowly, bending low and glancing around the corner of the wall, and peering toward the security desk.  One guard sat in his chair, slumped over the console.

He frowned, then eased around the corner and moved silently to the man, checking him.  "Pete," he called softly.

A moment later Sinclair and Gabby had joined Stone.  They looked down at the man, who had been shot in the head.

"What's this?" Peter asked, his voice worried.

"Don't know," Stone replied.  "But I don't like it."

"Maybe we should go," Gabrielle suggested.  "Call the police."

"Too late for him now," Stone said.

"Keep going," Peter said.

They continued on, finding two more dead guards on the way to the records office, where four other men lay dead.

"What the hell?" Stone whispered.

"Is anyone left alive?" Gabrielle asked, her French accent more pronounced by her fear.

"I don't like this.  Let's go," Peter said, his gut telling him something was very, very wrong.

As they turned to leave, Stone saw movement.  "Ambush!" he called, reaching for his M-9, but a moment later the four "dead" men were on their feet, or kneeling, and firing at them, and seconds later all three team members were lying on the floor.

Once the shooting stopped, another door leading into the room opened.  Strand stepped inside, followed by three men in white lab coats.

"Excellent," Strand said, looking at the three still forms.

"They're all alive," one of the white-coated men stated.

"Remove their masks," Strand instructed.

One of the guards bent over and pulled Gabrielle's free.

Strand smiled.  "Ah, yes, Miss Germont – so lovely.  But not what I need."  He moved to the next.  "And Peter Sinclair, tempting, very tempting, especially given how Alex feels about you, my boy.  Did he ever tell you the truth, I wonder?  But, no, he's not the one."

Stepping over to the last, Strand smiled and nodded.  "Yes.  Mr. Stone.  Just the man for this mission."  He looked up at one of the guards.  "Take Miss Germont and Mr. Sinclair back to their vehicle.  And no damage."

The man nodded his understanding.

"Mr. Stone, you're coming with us," Strand concluded.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

## 0500 Hours, Tuesday

 

Peter groaned and leaned back, rubbing at his head gingerly as he realized that he had been slumped over the steering wheel of the Suburban.  Glancing over he found Gabrielle leading against the passenger door.

Reaching out, he gently shook her shoulder, saying, "Gabrielle?"

The woman moaned softly, but she blinked her eyes open and looked at him.  "Peter?  What happened?" she asked, also reaching up to rub her temple.

"I don't know," he said, twisting around to check the backseat, looking for Stone.  The American wasn't there.  "Damn," he breathed.

"Where's Stone?" Gabby asked, also looking.

"I have no idea."  Peter leaned over and opened the glove-box.  He removed his cell phone, then punched the speed-dial number for Alexander's office.

Addington picked up after one ring.  "Peter?"

"It was a set-up," Sinclair said, his annoyance clear.  "Strand has Stone."

"J.J.'s is already expecting you," Addington said, "I want the two of you to go back to the plane."

"Alex, I—"

"Peter," the industrialist snapped, "that is not a request.  We have a better chance of finding Mr. Stone if we work together, use the resources we have at hand.  You know that!"

Sinclair hesitated a moment, wanting to argue, but Alexander was right – they had resources, they would find Stone.  They weren't going to find anything here; Strand was too smart for that.  "All right," he agreed.

"Thank you," Alexander said.  "Once you get back to the plane, then call me.  We'll run Strand to ground, I promise you that."

"I know, sir.  And I'll call you soon."  Peter ended the call and handed Gabby the phone, hoping Addington was right – for Stone's sake.

"What are we doing?" she asked.

"Going back to the plane."

Gabby nodded.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

**Coleman & Edward Chemicals**

**Toronto, Canada**

**1645 Hours, Tuesday**

 

Peter sat across the street in a rented car, studying the small building.  After spending the day digging through bank records, business dealings and front companies, and who knew exactly what else, they had found another of Strand's holdings.  And it was being run by a man who had left Addington's Pharmaceutical division – a man who had recently opened a Caribbean account with $500,000 cash.

Gabrielle sat in the passenger seat, continuing to look through pages of printouts, trying to track Strand down like they had the last time, but he had gotten more careful, hiding behind every business trick he could find or invent.

They waited in silence until a security guard finally stepped out to secure the front doors just after 5 p.m., then Peter drove them around the back of the building to the receiving dock.  They entered the building using the forged paperwork Gabrielle had created, the guard there not even giving them a second look.

Michael Keith looked up sharply when Peter and Gabby entered his office, his brow furrowing.  He had left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed.  "May I help you?" he asked, his tone clearly annoyed.

"Raise your hands in the air, Mr. Keith," Peter said, pulling his Glock from his pocket and pointing it at the man.

"What?" Keith snapped, his eyes rounding with fear and anger.

"Your hands, Mr. Keith," Sinclair repeated.  "Put them up."

The man complied, scowling darkly.  "Do I know you?" he asked the former detective.

"Peter Sinclair," he introduced himself.  "And you really should cover your tracks better, Mr. Keith.  The payoff Strand gave you was much too easy to find."

The man's gaze flickered nervously between Sinclair and Gabrielle, who stood next to Addington's chief of security, her arms folded over her chest.  He had no idea who she was, but it was obvious she worked for Addington as well.

"What's this about?" he demanded.

"What's this about?" Peter repeated, his eyebrows arching slightly.  "You leave a very promising career at Addington Pharmaceuticals, with no warning – files are missing, research reports, samples – and then, quite suddenly, you open an account with $500,000 cash.  This cash, as a matter of fact," he added, nodding to Gabby, who held up the small silver briefcase she had set down on the floor next to her, then opened it to show Keith the stacks of bills inside.

"That's my money?" Keith asked, unable to believe they could have emptied his account.

"It is," she replied.

"That's my retirement account!" he objected, standing up behind his desk.

"Then let's go retire it," Peter snarled, gesturing with his gun for Keith to move out from behind the desk.

The man quickly complied, anxious to save his money.

Sinclair pointed to the private restroom off Keith's office.

"What are you planning, Sinclair?" the man asked.  "You have no right to—"

"Move it," Sinclair growled, interrupting.

Keith frowned, but he led the way into the opulent rest room, Sinclair and Gabrielle following behind him.  Inside, Peter grabbed Keith's jacket at the top of the shoulder and maneuvered him over to stand in front of the toilet.

"Kneel down," he said softly.

"What?"

"You heard him," Gabby snapped, then slammed her foot against the back of Keith's right knee.  "Kneel down."

His leg buckling, Keith had no option but to do as he had been instructed, but he muttered darkly under his breath.

"Put your hands under your knees," Peter instructed.

"The floor might be dirty," Keith whined, looking up at the blond and wishing he was armed.

"It'll be a damned sight dirtier in a minute if you don't you what you're told," Sinclair threatened.  "Now, put your hands under your knees."

"Are you going to kill me?" Keith asked, doing as he was told, his face going starkly pale.

"That is entirely up to you," Peter replied, looking perfectly capable of executing Keith.  "Now, I want to know what Strand is up to."  He nodded to Gabby, who had carried in the briefcase.  She reached in, grabbed a fistful, and released the $1,000 bills, the money falling into the toilet bowl.  She reached over and flushed them.

"Are you crazy!" Keith cried, his eyes going wide, his face even paler.

"I'm only going to ask you once more," Sinclair said.  "What is Strand working on?"

Gabby tossed in more of the money and flushed that as well.

"No!" Keith cried, then looked up at Peter, his gaze pleading.  "All right, all right!  Strand wants to put Addington out of business, and he's willing to pay good money to do it."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know!"

Gabrielle tossed in more bills and reached for the handle.

"Please!  Strand is insane!  He'll kill me if I–"

She hit the handle, sending several thousand dollars down the toilet.

"Denver!  He's working out of a lab in Denver!"

" _What_ is he working on?" Peter asked.

Keith hesitated only a moment, but it was long enough for Gabby to drop an even larger handful of cash into the bowl.

"Don't!  Don't flush it!  Please!"

"What is Strand working on?" Peter bellowed at the man.

"The company is called Psi-Pharm.  Psi-Pharm Labs, in Denver.  They're doing work on mind-altering drugs, cocktails with psychological warfare applications.  But that's all I know, I swear!"

"I want names, a location – now!" Peter snapped.

"I don't know!"

"What's your connection to Psi-Pharm?" Gabrielle asked, reaching for the handle.

"We supply the components for the designer drugs they're developing," Keith rushed to tell them.  "But that's all, I swear it!"

"I want a name," Peter demanded.  "Someone who can get me in the door."

"Robert Woods," Keith said, his shoulders slumping.  "He's the lead research scientist at Psi-Pharm.  He sent the supply orders to me, and I saw to it that they were filled.  If any one can get you in the door, it's Woods."

"And he's in Denver?"

"Yeah, usually.  He's on vacation right now," Keith said, talking as quickly as he could.

"Where?"

"Martha's Vineyard.  He's got a cottage or something there.  I swear it!"

Peter and Gabrielle exchanged glances.  She dumped the rest of the money into the toilet, turned on her heel and headed out of the rest room.  Sinclair started after her, but stopped as he saw Keith begin to reach into the bowl to rescue the cash that floated there.  He reached over and shoved the handle down hard.

"No!" Keith cried, jerking his hand back out.

"You can get up now, Mr. Keith," Sinclair said, but the man was slumped over, sobbing over his loss.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

**Psi-Pharm Labs**

**Denver, Colorado**

**0830 Hours, Wednesday**

 

Konrad Strand walked around the circular tank.  The clear plastic container allowed him to see the naked man floating on the surface of the liquid that filled it.  Stone's body was covered with large bruises and angry red welts from the beating he had endured.  An oxygen mask covered his mouth, bandages over his eyes.  Earplugs cut off his ability to hear.  Thin micro-filaments ensured that his fingers and toes were not allowed to touch.

"Our basic presupposition is that time has no meaning to human memory.  Years can pass like minutes, and minutes like centuries.  Memory is like a picture painted on glass.  Even when after the paint is dry, it can be changed – color can be added to color, light turned to dark.  A peaceful man can be transformed into a murderer, or a killer like Mr. Stone, re-directed to new targets.  All that's necessary is to shatter and re-paint his past."

Strand smiled.  "A shame you'll never really appreciate this, Mr. Stone," he said, although the man in the tank couldn't hear him.  He continued to address the three men who were there to observe the process.  "We call the technique 'splintering', and it comes in three stages.  The first, which is now complete, is physical pain.  Pain creates shock, fatigue and rage, jarring the subject from reality.

"In the second stage, which is where Mr. Stone has been for many hours now, we isolate him from his own body – even his fingers and toes are not allowed to touch.  His eyes and ears are sealed.  He floats in a liquid kept at exact body temperature.  In this state, time loses all meaning.  The present becomes the past, and the future, well…"  Strand smiled.  "…there is no future."

He walked around the tank before he continued, saying, "Stage three is a reconstruction of reality.  Psi-Pharm chemists have carefully formulated a powerful hallucinogenic agent.  When coupled with taped messages, played directly into the subject's mind, key moments from his past are re-created.  What he experiences appears totally real.

"Mr. Stone has developed some central friendships that have changed his life, and one of those friendships will be the point of our attack."  He looked at the closest technician, instructing, "Seal it."

A clear plastic lid was lowered into place and locked down, sealing Stone off completely.

Another technician stepped up and opened the drip on the two IV's that ran into Stone's arms.  A moment later the former SEAL was gasping for breath, his body trembling, muscles jerking.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Lost in an endless black void, Stone wandered, confused and frightened.  Out of nowhere a burst of fire from an AK-47 split the darkness like a stab of lightening.  Tracers continued to fly around him even after he had thrown himself to the ground.  Or at least he thought he had, but it was impossible to know for sure.

He crawled along as images assaulted him, rapid-fire – various raids and operations in Vietnam, other missions he had undertaken for the CIA, more tracer fire, an explosion from a white phosphorous grenade…

Over the din of gunfire and pain-filled screams Stone heard Sinclair's voice.  "Yes, sir, I've studied the file thoroughly."

Then, suddenly Stone was sitting in Alexander Addington's office.  The industrialist was seated behind his desk, flanked by Bennett and Helene, both of whom were watching him, their expressions disapproving.  Pacing in front of him was Sinclair.  Gabrielle leaned against the back of another chair.

But why were they all watching him?

"I knew bringing him into the organization was a mistake," Sinclair said, his gaze cutting to Addington.  "But you forced him on me.  Over my objections, if you'll recall."

"What's going on, Pete?" Stone asked, feeling decidedly nervous.

"What do you want to do about it, Peter?" Alexander asked, dropping a thick file folder onto his desktop.

"I'll handle it, in my own way," Sinclair assured the industrialist.

"You better handle it, Peter," Addington said.  "And you don't have much time."

"I will take care of it, sir.  You can be sure of that," Peter assured him, then stopped pacing.  He looked down at Stone.

The ex-SEAL met the man's gaze, noting the distrust in Sinclair's eyes.  "What?  What's going on?"

"That is the question, isn't it, Sport," Sinclair countered.

Stone took a deep breath, confused, his head aching.  He reached up and rubbed at his temples.  "Damn it, Pete, what's goin' on?  I don't even remember comin' here."

"You don't remember meeting us?  You don't remember meeting us at the airport?  You don't remember attacking J.J.?  You don't remember Gabrielle and I quelling you?"  Sinclair sighed heavily.  "I trusted you, Stone."

That brought the man's head up.  "Now wait a minute, Pete."

"I trusted you, even more than I trusted Luke.  More than anyone one else in the world."

"We all did," Gabby added, her expression angry.

"Yes, we all trusted you, Mr. Stone," Alexander concurred.  "But it seems that trust was misplaced."

"What the hell's going on here?" Stone demanded, beginning to lose his temper.

"Do you remember our first meeting, Stone?" Sinclair asked.

"Yeah."

"Describe it to me."

"You were there, Pete," Stone countered.

"Describe it to me!"

"I was in the CIA."

"You were in the Navy once, too."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"You were a Navy SEAL," Gabrielle added.

"Yeah, I was a SEAL.  So what?"

"Expertly trained in the use of weapons and demolition.  You are a highly trained killing machine."

"So?" Stone asked.  "What's that got to do with our first meeting?  I was with the Company then."

"You were under attack."

"Yeah, by the bad guys," Stone snapped.

"You were trying to kill them."

"I was doing my job!"

"Were you?  Or were you working for yourself?  We saved you from getting shot.  What happened next?"

"What?"

"You were released from the CIA, at your request, and you started to work for Mr. Addington, isn't that right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"How many assignments have gone wrong since you got here, Stone?" Peter asked.  "How many unexplained deaths have there been?"

"Pete, what the hell are you taking about?  What unexplained deaths?"

"Why, even your old SEAL unit was killed!"

"I had nothing to do with that!" Stone yelled, the pain of the loss still a raw ache in his guts.

"It is all here, Mr. Stone!" Addington bellowed, holding up the thick file folder.  "All of it – right here!"

"Let me see that," Stone said, reaching out for the file, but Addington opened the folder, then slapped the surface of the desk and looked up.

"It says, right here, that you infiltrated this organization.  You were a traitor, out to destroy everything I've spent my life building."

"What?"

"Look at it, Mr. Stone," Addington continued.  "Look at it for yourself.  It's all right here!"

"Traitor," Gabrielle said.  "And we trusted you.  You tried to kill me, Stone.  That time in Strand's maze.  You wanted Peter to kill me!"

"No, I didn't!  It scared the crap out of me I almost got you killed!"

"You wanted me to die!"

"That's—"

"I'm going to give you one chance to escape," Sinclair said, interrupting Stone.  "One chance only."

Stone looked back at Sinclair, who was holding a gun on him.  "Pete, you don't believe this—"

"Run, Stone.  Run."

Stone squinted, the light coming in from the window behind Addington growing too bright for him to look at.  A fierce wind sprang up, howling in his ears, but he could still hear Sinclair's voice: "Run, Stone.  Run.  Run.  Run.  Run, Stone."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

**Martha's Vineyard, MA**

**0400 Hours, Wednesday**

 

Leaning against the wall next to the king-sized bed, Peter leaned over and tapped the sleeping man's shoulder, saying, "Rise and shine, Mr. Woods."

Robert Woods jerked awake, his eyes widening with surprise as he peered up at Sinclair though sleep-fogged eyes.

Peter smiled down at him, his Glock trained on the man.

Instinctively, Woods slipped his hand under his pillow and frowned.

"The gun you keep under your pillow is elsewhere, Mr. Woods," Gabrielle said, stepping into his field of vision and holding up his Smith & Wesson for a good look.

"Who are you?" Woods demanded, slinking down under his covers farther.  "Who are you?  What do you want with me?"

"You're looking a little haggard, Mr. Woods," Peter said.  "I think you need to get away, take a short vacation."

"I am on vacation!"

Sinclair smiled.  "I hear Denver is beautiful this time of year.  Get up, Mr. Woods," he said, his voice deadly cold.

Woods climbed slowly out of bed and started to reach for his clothes.

"You won't be needing those," Peter said.

"But—"

Gabrielle grabbed the man's arm.  "Come on."

"Look, just tell me what you want; we can make a deal!"

"Oh, we'll deal all right, Mr. Woods," Sinclair promised.  "But on _our_ terms, and when _we_ say.  Now, come along, we have a flight to catch."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

## 0540 Hours, Wednesday

 

Onboard their private jet, Peter and Gabrielle escorted the shivering Robert Woods to a small closet-like space.

The photojournalist opened the door.  "Get in," she instructed.

"In there?" Woods squeaked, his face going pale.

Gabrielle nodded.

"You heard her," Peter added, gesturing with his Glock.

"I can't!  I—"

Sinclair leveled his gun on the man.  "Do you honestly think I gave a damn?  Dead or alive you're getting in that closet.  Now!" the former detective yelled, making the man jump.

Woods backed into the small space, his limbs already beginning to shake as Gabrielle reached out and began to close the door.  "Please!  What do you want from me?"

"Psi-Pharm."

Woods eyes went round with surprise.  "I can't," he gasped in honest terror.

Peter nodded to Gabrielle and she shut the door a little farther.

"Wait!  Please!"

"I want a location," Peter told the man.

"Denver!"

"That much we already knew," Gabby said, closing the door more.

"No!  Please!  I'll show you!"

"We were hoping you'd say that," Peter said.  "One more question.  Hector Stone, dead or alive?"

"I don't know anyone by that name."

Gabrielle shut the door, the latch falling into place with a loud _click_.

"No!  Please!"

"Dead or alive?" Sinclair repeated.

"Alive!  He's alive!"

"Take a seat, Mr. Woods," Peter said, locking the door.  "It might be a bumpy flight."

"Let me out of here!  Please!  Let me out of here!"

"As soon as we're in Denver," Gabrielle informed him.

A low moan was the only reply.

She walked over to join Peter, who had picked up the phone to say, "J.J., we're ready to go."

"Do you think he's telling the truth – about Stone?"

"I hope so."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

**Denver, Colorado**

**1300 Hours, Wednesday**

 

Checking the monitors, then glancing over at Stone, Strand smiled.  "His heart's beating like a marathon runner.  He's progressing well.  Put in the second tape," he directed.

A technician did as instructed, Stone's breath quickly becoming ragged.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

He was running, although he couldn't tell where he was, or where he was going.  But all around him he could still hear Sinclair's voice: "Run, Stone…  Run, Stone…  Run, run, run, Stone…  Run, Stone."

Then, suddenly, he was racing along a city street.  He stopped, standing outside a fancy hotel.  He glanced up, and there, standing on a balcony was Vickie.

"No," he said to himself, "that's impossible."

But he bolted into the lobby, ignoring the people who were there, and sprinted to the stairs, taking them two or three at a time.  He wasn't sure how he knew where to go, but he trusted his instincts.  His heart pounded loudly in his chest, the drumming blocking out all other sounds.  His legs and his lungs burned.

And then he was standing outside her door.  He glanced to the left and right, but the impossibly long hallway was empty.  He reached out, his hand closing around the knob.  He turned it.  The door swung open silently and he stepped into the suite.

Victoria, standing near the middle of the room, turned.  She smiled at him, then rushed over to him, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him.  Pulling back, she kissed him, then said, "Thank God.  I thought they'd caught you.  But you're here, and everything's going to be wonderful."

"Vickie, what're you doin' here?" he asked, some part of him knowing this was wrong – very wrong.

"What do you mean, Stone?" she asked.  "I was waiting for you, like you asked me to.  I called the number you gave me, but you never answered.  I didn't know what to do, so I hid the papers."

"Papers?"

"General—"

"No.  No, this is impossible," Stone laughed, taking a step back from her, his hands coming up to keep her back.  "This can't be happening."

"Stone?" she asked, her expression pleading.  "What's wrong?  I love you.  It's going to be fine now."

"This can't be happening!" he yelled at her.  Victoria was dead.  He _knew_ she was dead.

"Let's go get the papers," she said.  "You can sell them.  We'll take the money and run away together – like we planned.  We'll be rich, and free to do whatever we want."

"What?" he asked her, totally confused.  The papers had to be delivered to a Senate subcommittee; they proved the corruption had risen to the highest levels of power…

There was a knock at the door and Victoria started to answer it.  He grabbed her arm.  "No.  Don't open it," he told her.

"Why?"

"It's not who you think it is," Stone told her.  "They're going to kill you."

She smiled.  "Stone, what are you saying?"  She started for the door again.

"Vickie, no."

"I have to answer it, Stone," she said.  "I have no choice.  You sent them, remember?"

He lunged forward and grabbed her again.  "What're you talkin' about?"

"I love you," she told him, reaching up to caress his face, then started for the door.

"Vickie, no!" he cried, but it was too late, she had disappeared.  "Vickie!"

He bolted for the door, then stumbled to a stop.  He wasn't in the suite any more.

"I thought you said you loved her, Sport," Sinclair said.

Stone spun around.  He was outside again, a gray fog swirling around him, making it impossible to tell where he was.  Not far away stood Sinclair, holding the file folder, and his Glock.

"What?" Stone asked.

"It's all there, Sport.  It's all there, remember?  How you set Victoria up.  How you traded her for—"

"Bullshit!" Stone growled, taking a step toward the blond, but the Glock came up, pointed at him, and he stopped.

"You betrayed her, Stone.  You betrayed all of us.  Why can't you remember?"

"I don't remember!" Stone yelled.

"You're a traitor, Stone.  A Judas…  Run, Stone.  Run."

Stone wanted to run, but he was frozen in place.  And then a biting wind began to blow, hot, like the breath from the mouth of a volcano, and it burned away his soul, turning his resolve into ash.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

One of the technicians looked up from the computer monitor he was watching.  "Sir, I'm getting some erratic readings."

"Increase the dosage," Strand instructed another tech, who immediately dialed up the frequency on the IV drip.

The first man turned back to his monitor.  A few moments later he nodded and said, "That seemed to do the trick."

In the tank, Stone's body began to twitch again, and he gulped in air from the mask over his mouth.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

He was crawling through the jungle, through the mud, on his belly, too afraid to stand.  The darkness clawed at him, rending tears in his clothes and skin.  Wisps of gray fog curled around and stung his face and hands like tentacles from a deadly jellyfish.  And all around him he could hear the voices of his SEAL team brothers, he could hear Jack and Jake's voices, other friends…  _Traitor…  Judas…  You left us to die…  You killed us, Rock…_

_Traitor…  Murderer…  You killed us…  Left us to die…_

_Traitor…  Judas…_

"What are you doing here, Stone?" Sinclair asked.  "We were on a mission.  What happened to you?"

Stone stopped and sat there in the mud.  "I don't know," he admitted, completely at a loss.

"What are you doing, Stone?" Sinclair demanded again.

"Get away from me!" the former SEAL yelled, then he looked back at the Brit.  "You left me!"

"Left you?"  Sinclair laughed.  "Tell the _truth_ , Stone!"

"I am!"

"Why are all the men you've worked with dead?"

"What?"

"Answer me!" Sinclair snapped.  But Stone could not.  "Look around!" the former detective continued.  "Dead!  They are all dead!"

_Traitor…  Judas…  You left us to die…  You killed us, Rock…_

"No!" Stone yelled.

"They're all dead, Stone.  You're all alone.  You killed them all.  Each and every one of them.  You even tried to kill Gabrielle and me, as well!"

"No!" Stone cried again.  "I've never–"

"Only the Judas is still alive.  The rest of us are only shadows.  You do remember, Stone?  Do you remember killing Gabrielle?"

Images flashed though Stone's mind: his hands closing around the photojournalist's throat… her fingers, clawing at his hands, at his face… then her eyes, slowly closing.  He let her limp body drop…

"I didn't kill her!"

"It's all here.  Right here.  You betrayed us," Sinclair sneered, holding out the file folder.

"I didn't kill them!  They were my friends!"

"Friends?" Sinclair challenged.  "Friends don't murder their friends, Stone.  You betrayed them.  You killed them.  There's only one way out, Stone…  Death with honor, Sport."

Sinclair pointed to the ground and Stone looked, finding an M-9 lying close to his hand.

"Pick up the gun, Stone.  Pick it up," Sinclair told him.  "It's your turn to die."

_Traitor…  Judas…_

Stone reached out and picked up the gun.  He turned it over in his shaking hands, then looked up at Sinclair, crying, "I didn't kill them!  They were my friends, my family!"

"Family?" the blond scoffed.  "I saw what you did to your family, Stone, remember?  I saw how you betrayed Nick.  You betrayed all of us!  Remember?"

"No!"

"It's all here, Stone.  Why can't you tell the truth?  It's all in there," he said, pointing at the ground again.

Stone looked down, finding the file folder lying where the gun had been.

"All your memories are right there on the ground!" Sinclair told him.  "Why can't you remember?"

Stone started to reach out for the folder, but fear squeezed his heart.  What if Sinclair was right?

_Traitor…  Judas…  You left us to die…  You killed us, Rock…_

Unable to force himself to reach the file, Stone gripped the M-9 tighter.  Fear and guilt exploded in his chest.  He snapped the gun up, firing at Sinclair.

As soon as he did, Stone felt his anger dissolve into profound sadness and he began to sob as he stared at the bloody body of the man he had come to call friend… family.

"You are a traitor, Stone," Sinclair's voice accused him out of the darkness.  "Traitor.  Traitor, Stone.  Traitor."

Stone's world erupted into shattered bits of multicolored stained glass, raining down on him, cutting him into a million aching pieces.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

## 1500 Hours, Wednesday

 

Peter slipped out of the rented sedan and walked over to an electrical box that sat near one of the older buildings in an small industrial park.  He used a lock-pick to open the padlock that secured the box, then quickly found the wires he was looking for and attached a small black box to them.  That done, he returned to the waiting car.

J.J. drove them to the building Robert Woods pointed out, Peter and Woods getting out of the back seat.

"Give us thirty or forty minutes, then call in the police," the former detective told J.J. and Gabrielle.

"Peter, I want to go," Gabrielle said.

"I know, but I can't take the chance," he told her.  "I don't want Strand to end up with three hostages."

"But two are okay?" she challenged him.

"I'm counting on you and J.J. to get us out before I become a hostage."

She didn't look happy, but nodded her agreement, adding, "You'll be a hostage as soon as you pass the door."

"Come on," Peter said, holding on to Woods' arm, his Glock pressed to the man's side.

"You're a dead man," Woods muttered under his breath.

"Well, at least I'll get some rest," Peter replied tiredly.

"What do you want me to do?" the chemist asked.

"Take me on a tour of Psi-Pharm, Mr. Woods."

The man looked down at his pajamas, and blanched.

When they reached the side of the building, Peter instructed, "Kneel down."  Once the man did he added, "Hands on top of your head."  When Woods complied, Peter fished into his pocket for a small remote control unit.  He pressed the button on the front of the device and a moment later the lights in the building went out.

Taking the opportunity, Peter used the butt of his Glock to break out a window pane.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Inside the building, everything went dark, but a few moments later the lights came back up.  Strand glanced around, watching the technicians checking their equipment.

          "Everything's fine," one of them announced.

          Strand smiled.  "Ah, Mr. Sinclair must be here.  It's about time."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

A few moments later Peter forced Woods into the laboratory, but he jerked the man to a halt as soon as he spotted Stone floating in the tank.

"Oh, my God," Peter breathed.

One of the technicians started to leave, but Peter's Glock shifted to the man.  "Stay right where you are.  Get that lid off.  Get him out of there – now!"

"I'm afraid it's not quite that simple, Mr. Sinclair," Strand said, stepping into view, one of his security people standing beside him.  "Your friend is drugged, and on a life support system.  If we remove him without the correct preparations, he will die."

"Then start the preparation – now," Peter snarled, "or your chemist dies."

Strand smiled.  "I'm not convinced that you would actually kill Mr. Woods in cold blood, but I do have the deepest respect for your convictions, and your reputation, Mr. Sinclair, so let's dispense with the formalities, shall we?"  He nodded.

The security guard shot Robert Woods twice in the heart and the chemist dropped heavily to the floor.

"Now, Mr. Sinclair, I need you to hand over your gun, and put your hands on your head.  Do it, or you _and_ Mr. Stone will both die.  Please, you really have no other choice."

After a brief glance at Stone, Peter dropped his Glock and put his hands on his head.

"I wondered how long it would take you to find us," Strand said as if he were making polite conversation.  "But then, you are a brilliant detective, and Miss Germont's talents are formidable, at the least.  I assume she'll be joining us soon?"

"Along with the police."

"Ah, I see.  Well, then we have no time to waste.  I suppose you would like to know what it is that I want."

"Oh, I'm absolutely sure you'll tell me," Peter replied.

"Yes," Strand said, an indulgent smile on his lips, but his eyes had turned hard and cold, "yes, I will.  You see, I've become a something of a fan, Peter.  I can call you Peter, can't I?" he asked, then continued, not waiting for an answer, "You see, Peter, I've spent some time studying your career at Scotland Yard, and with Alexander Addington.  And I must say you're absolutely brilliant, but… flawed.  Friendship tends to make you lose your objectivity.  That's why Mr. Stone was chosen.  Well, that _and_ his natural inclinations toward violence.  You see, it's not _you_ I'm after, Peter, it's Alexander.  And do you know what Alex's weakness is?

" _You_ are his weakness, Peter – you and Suzanne.  And Mr. Stone, and Miss Germont, and Helene Previn, why, even good ol' Bennett.  Poor Alex, such a sentimentalist, but, if I destroy you, all of you, I _will_ destroy him."

Peter glanced at Stone.  "So you've programmed him to kill us."

"Oh, very good, Peter, very good, but not quite.  You see, at this point Mr. Stone's only been convinced to kill _you_ ," Strand said, then gestured for Peter to come with him, leading the former detective into the small but well-appointed office.  "Please, have a seat."

"I'd rather not."

"Sit," Strand ordered and the two security men started forward.

Peter sat.

Strand smiled and poured them each a brandy, then handed one to Peter, who accepted it, but didn't drink.  The scientist held up his glass, saying, "To strategy, the international language."

Peter sat back, his eyes narrowing.  "And I would guess you think your strategy to be brilliant."

"I view it to be successful," Strand corrected, then sat down behind his desk.  "You know, it was ridiculously easy to place some of my people in Alexander's organization.  And then it was simple matter of dipping into some of Alex's research in order to bring this all about."

"You mean this technique, or whatever it is you call it, you used on Stone came from—?"

"The pieces, yes, absolutely, but Alexander would never take the work to its logical conclusion.  I, on the other hand, have done exactly that.  And it was all done with funding from Addington Industries."

"How very efficient and economical of you," Peter replied, sarcasm dripping from each word.

"Yes, actually, it was," Strand agreed, looking very pleased with himself.  "And it was the least Alex could do after ruining my work with Professor Kessler.  But that was then, as they say, and now I have buyers here to witness the field test of our new designer drug.  Of course, it had to be impressive, which is why I chose Mr. Stone and yourself.  What harder cases could I find?"

Peter leaned back and took a sip of his brandy.  "Oh, yes, we're certainly hard, aren't we?"  He took another sip.  "And after Stone kills me?"

"Why, then the rest of you, of course.  And finally Alexander himself."

Peter glowered at him, but said nothing.

The phone sitting on Strand's desk rang and he picked it up, listening for a few moments, before saying, "Good.  Thank you," and then hanging up again.  He looked at Peter.  "Mr. Stone is awake, and he's asking to see you."

One of the two security men stepped forward and pulled up a panel set into the floor, revealing a set of stairs that led down into darkness.

"It has been a pleasure, Mr. Sinclair," Strand said, toasting him.

"You're not coming?" Peter asked, trying to make it sound innocent.

Strand smiled indulgently.  "Oh no, I think you and Mr. Stone need some time to… renew an old friendship."

"Ah, I see," Sinclair replied as he stood and walked over to the stairs.  After a deep breath, he headed down the steps.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

In the maze-like room below Strand's office, Peter made his way carefully and quietly in the darkness.  His heart was pounding.  Stone was a dangerous man under the best of circumstances, and this was far from being the best of anything.  He only hoped he could stay alive long enough for the police to find him.

Rounding a corner, he spotted Stone sitting on a wooden chair across a dark room.  He was bent over his knees, like he had just thrown up.  For a brief moment Peter considered trying to hide in the chaotic tangle of boxes and stored equipment, but he dismissed the idea.  If Stone decided to find him, the former SEAL would do it.

Stone remained perfectly still as Peter moved closer, the ring of his footfall perfectly clear in the large room.  Stone had to know he was there.  So why wasn't he moving?

"Stone?" Peter called softly, but there was no response.  "Stone?" he tried again.

The former SEAL slowly sat up, and Peter had to fight to stifle a gasp when he got a good look at the man's face, which was bruised and swollen, patches of skin peeling off.  He watched Stone turn his head slightly so he could look at him out of the less-puffy eye.

"Stone, it's Peter.  Are you all right?"

Out of nowhere voices began to echo in the enclosed space:  _Traitor…  Judas…  You left us to die…  You killed us, Rock…_

Peter glanced around.  "I don't know what those words mean, Sport," he said.  "Who's the traitor?  Stone?"

_Traitor…  Judas…  You left us to die…  You killed us, Rock…_

"I am _not_ a traitor!" Stone yelled, bolting to his feet, M-9 in his trembling hands.

"No, Stone you're not," Peter replied immediately, realizing what Strand had in mind for him.  "You're right, you're absolutely right.  You are not a traitor."  But even as he was speaking, he knew it was too late.

Stone jerked the gun up and fired.  The shock of the shot knocked Peter to his knees, a painful burning exploding in his shoulder.

"Stone!  No, Stone!" the former detective cried, his mind racing, searching for a way to get through to the man.  "What're they trying to teach you, Stone?"  He watched as the former SEAL shuffled slowly closer, the M-9 still pointed at him.  "Are they trying to teach you that I'm your enemy?  You know that's not true.  You _know_ it's not true.  I am _not_ your enemy, Stone, you know that.  I'm your friend.  I'm your _friend_."  His mind raced even faster, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he had time to really think about what he was saying.  "We're a team, Stone.  A _team_.  We've been fighting people like the ones who did this to you for almost a year.  We've saved each other's lives more times than I can count.  I'm your friend, Stone, I am _not_ your enemy.  I'm your _friend_ , remember that.  _Remember_ that.  Don't let them take that away from you.  Remember the past.  Remember—"

Peter's voice caught when Stone reached him, then pulled him to his feet, the movement sending a stab of pain through his shoulder.  On his feet, Stone pulled the blond right up against his trembling body.

Sinclair met the American's gaze and the glimmer of recognition he saw there gave him hope.

"Stone, listen, there's something more important, more powerful than hatred, and that's friendship.  I'm your friend.  I've always been your friend."  He gulped in a breath, sure now that he was getting through to the man, but they had to play this out, they had to make Strand think it had worked in order to lure him to them.  "If I've hurt you," he continued, meeting and holding Stone's gaze, willing him to understand, "in any way, please, forgive me.  And if I am to die now, Stone, remember – I forgave you.  Remember.  And remember I died as your friend."

The gun went off again.

"Ah," Peter said, his tone almost disappointed, then he fell heavily to the floor.

Stone didn't move, just stood where he was, staring down at Sinclair and waiting.

Strand and his potential buyers entered through a different door, hurrying toward them.

"Gentlemen, what more can be said?" Strand asked.  "I think this is clear proof of our success."

"Don't bet on it, asshole," Stone muttered softly, then he spun, taking out the two security men.

One of the guards fell near Peter, and Sinclair reached out, grabbing the man's fallen weapon and aiming it at Strand, who was reaching for the second fallen man's weapon.

"Don't you dare make a move, or I'll finish it!" Peter snarled.

Strand met his eyes and, seeing the conviction, set the weapon back down on the floor.

"Stand up," Sinclair said.

Strand did as ordered, and Peter carefully climbed to his feet, unable to bite back a groan along the way.  "Now, don't you do anything to make me nervous," he said, biting off the words as he covered Strand, the buyers and the last security man.  "Because I am in pain, and _pain_ drives away my objectivity."  He glanced briefly at Stone, who had shuffled up to stand next to him, his M-9 trained on the men as well.  "God, it's good to see you."

"Y' don't say," Stone replied.  "I gotta say, Pete, as a dream you make for a real nightmare."

"Yes, I'm sure," Sinclair half-growled as he watched the men.  "Put your hands up.  Hands up!"  As soon as they obeyed, he added, "Now, we leave."

Together the two men herded Strand and the others outside, the police just pulling up as they stepped out.

Gabrielle and J.J. climbed out of the rented car and raced over to join them.

Stone pressed his M-9 into Gabby's hand, and she took it, looking worried.  "Stone, are you all right?" she asked.

"Hell no," was the airy reply.

"Come on, Stone," J.J. said, then took the former SEAL by the arm and carefully guided him over to one of the police cars, then helped him sit down on the passenger seat.

"An ambulance is on the way," the officer said, his gaze sweeping over Stone.  "Christ, you look like hell!"

"Feels worse," Stone muttered in reply.  "But it beats dead."

Gabby guided Peter over to the car as well, and the man leaned back against the vehicle, waiting for the medics to arrive.  He looked down at Stone and asked, "You going to make it?"

Stone nodded.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

**University Hospital**

**Denver, Colorado**

**2000 Hours, Wednesday**

 

Peter and Gabrielle stood when a young man stepped into the waiting room.  In his thirties, with light brown hair and green eyes, he wore blue jeans, a long-sleeve forest green T-shirt and a pale green lab coat.  Tennis shoes that looked more like hiking boots completed the picture of a fit, outdoors man who just happened to be a physician.

"Friends of Mr. Stone?" he asked, his voice deep and pleasant as he took in Sinclair's bandaged arm and the sling he was wearing.  "I'm Dr. Gray Jordan."

"Nice to meet you, Doctor," Peter said.  "Peter Sinclair," he added, extending his good hand.  The doctor shook it, then turned to Gabby and smiled.

"Gabrielle Germont," she said, shaking the doctor's hand as well.

The physician's eyes rounded with surprise.  "The photojournalist?"

She nodded, her cheeks turning rosy.

"I read the article you did on AIDs in South Africa for _Yes_.  Very powerful."

"Thank you," she replied, smiling at the man.  "How is Stone?"

"He's resting at the moment.  We've filtered his blood to help clear out the drugs, and the lab is running tests on the samples we took.  No broken bones, no concussion, but he is going to be sore for a few days due to the bruises.

"And I asked one of our ophthalmologists to take a look at his right eye.  He took quite a beating to that side of his face, and his vision's currently a little blurry, but I'm really just being cautious.  I think his vision will clear up as the swelling goes down."

"When can we see him?" Gabrielle asked.

"Now, if you'd like.  He should be in his room.  But I'll warn you, we gave him some pain medication, so he's not going to be awake for long."

"We just want to make sure he's okay," Gabrielle said, walking with the doctor as he led the way.

Peter followed behind, hoping the physician's optimism was well founded.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

In his room, Stone shifted uncomfortably in his bed, trying to find a position that didn't make something hurt.  He could feel the painkillers beginning to kick in and knew he would be asleep before too long, and oblivious to the pain.

He wondered how Sinclair was doing, and hoped that the fact that no one had dropped by to see him didn't mean there was some kind of complication.  He sighed heavily, worried and unable to do a damned thing about it.

He knew he had an apology to rehearse, but just couldn't bring himself to do it.  He was too tried, and his ribs were really starting to ache.

"Damn," he breathed, shifting again and willing the medication to work faster.

A moment later he glanced over as is door opened.  Dr. Jordan stepped into his room, followed by Gabrielle and Peter.

Stone's gaze swiftly traveled over his two teammates.  Gabby looked fine.  Sinclair was a little pale, his arm in a sling, a thick bandage visible under the man's sweatshirt.

 _My sweatshirt_ , Stone realized.  _I must've left it on the plane_.

He offered them a small smile, his eyelids suddenly heavy enough that he had to struggle to keep his eyes open.

"How are you?" Gabby asked, leaning over to give Stone a careful hug.

"Feels like I just went though Hell Week again," the former SEAL muttered, but his gaze locked on Sinclair's and he added, "How 'bout you?"

Peter smiled affectionately.  "Be good as new in no time, seems your aim is as good as always."

Stone nodded.  "Sorry 'bout that."

"Don't worry about that now," Peter told him.  "Get some rest.  We'll be by tomorrow morning to check on you."

"We just wanted to see that you were all right," Gabby told him.

"Be fine," Stone assured them, his eyes slipping closed.  "Played with my head some, but I…"

"He's asleep," Dr. Jordan said.

"We should let him sleep," Gabby said.

Peter nodded.  He was more than ready to get some sleep himself.  They would come back in the morning.  And then the healing would really begin.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

**Community Hospital**

**0900 Hours, Thursday**

 

          Stone stared at his breakfast, wondering what in the world had possessed someone to call it "food."  He pushed his spoon through what he hoped was oatmeal, then shook his head and settled on the juice.

          He had just finished that, his stomach grumbling in protest over the lack of anything more, when the door to his room swung open and Gabrielle entered.  She was carrying a brown paper bag.

          "I hope that's food, because what they call breakfast around here could make MREs look appetizing," Stone complained.

          She smiled and handed him the bag.  "I thought you might say that."

          He opened it and glanced inside, then closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer of thanks to whatever entity was watching over him.  Reaching inside, he pulled out the cinnamon roll and took a huge bite.

          He moaned softly, enjoying the taste and the sugar rush.

          Gabby handed him the cup of hot, black coffee she was holding.

          "I owe you," he told her.

          She grinned.  "Feeling better?"

          He nodded.  "Just a little sore."

          "And the eye?"

          "Fine this morning."  He took another bite, then chased it down with the coffee.  Looking up, he held her gaze with his and asked.  "How's Pete?"

          "They're checking his shoulder now.  He'll be up when they're done."

          "But how is he?" he asked again.

          "Fine," she told him.

          He shook his head.  "It happened so damned fast.  I couldn't stop myself."

          "He's not blaming you," she assured him.

          "He has every right to," Stone challenged her.

          She sat down on the edge of his bed and reached out to rest one hand lightly on his shoulder.  "Don't say that," she chastised him.  "They gave you drugs, and there was no way for you to fight that – no more than Peter could have fought off the poison he was given that time."[2]

          "That was different," Stone told her.

          "Not so different as you seem to think.  I talked to the chemists; the drugs Strand was developing are impossible to fight off."

          "If that were true," Stone said, and it was clear he didn't think it was, "then I would've killed him."

          "No," Gabby countered.  "The drugs were impossible to resist, but the programming, that was flawed."

          Stone held her gaze for a long moment, trying to decide if she was telling him the truth, or if she was just trying to make him feel better.  He decided she was telling him the truth.

          "So," he asked her, the first hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "where did they go wrong, madam scientist?"

          She smiled.  "I have a theory about that," she told him.

          "I'll just bet you do."

          But before she could launch into her explanation, Peter pushed his way into the room, his left arm still in a sling.

          "Peter!" Gabrielle greeted him, getting up and walking over to him.  She kissed his cheek, then looked back over her shoulder at Stone.  "I'll come back later and tell you," she promised.  "But I have a date with Dr. Jordan."

          "A date?" Stone asked, his eyebrows climbing.  "With _my_ doctor?"

          Gabby's smiled grew wider.  "Yes.  Bye!" she called, then escaped out the door.

          "She's dating my doctor?" Stone asked Sinclair.

          "It appears so," was Peter's reply.  He crossed to the bed, and stood, looking down at Stone's smuggled breakfast.  "And a good thing, too.  Give you time to consume the evidence."

          Stone looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded and started to work on the cinnamon roll and the coffee.  "How's the shoulder?" he asked between bites.

          "Coming along very nicely, they tell me."

          "Physical therapy?"

          Peter nodded.  "When we get back."

          "Look, Pete," Stone started, "I'm really sorry about that.  I—"

"Oh no, I'm not up to arguing with you about this," Sinclair told him, then he smiled indulgently.  He walked over, grabbed a chair and pulled it up next to the bed so he could sit down.  When he was settled he said, "I want you to listen to me.  What happened wasn't your fault.  Strand set us up.  He thought he had a drug, a process where he could create assassins."

"So you weren't my only supposed target?"

Peter shook his head.  "He thought he was going to have you kill everyone close to Alexander.  But you beat him at his game."

"Something for which I will be forever grateful," added a voice from the doorway.

Both men looked around.  Alexander Addington walked into the room, using his cane today.  The older man looked down at Stone.  "Strand obviously didn't count on your… conviction."

Stone grinned slightly.  "Stubbornness, don't you mean, Mr. A?"

Addington smiled.  "A rose by any other name, Mr. S."

Peter smiled as well, but shook his head and said, "No, it wasn't stubbornness, at least I would prefer to think it has more to do with how well we all work together."

Stone nodded.  "Yeah, I think that had a lot to do with it."  He fell silent for a moment, his expression turning inward and more serious.  Then he sighed and nodded to himself and said, "I was a team player, for a helluva long time, and I was good at it.  I liked being part of a team."  He glanced over to the window, adding softly, "It was like having a family.  Made me feel safe… needed.  Hell, wanted.  But then the Company came to me and asked me to work solo.  I didn't want to do it, but I couldn't say no.  They needed me, it was work that needed to be done, but I never liked it.  When things went south, and I had the chance to jump ship, I couldn't do it fast enough, because I could see this was a team."

He looked back to Peter and Addington.  "I've never regretted that decision."  He met and held Peter's gaze.  "You've always been there for me, and I appreciate it, more than you know."

          "That works both ways, Sport," Sinclair told him.

          Stone nodded.  "I hope so.  But I guess that's why it didn’t work.  What they were trying to make me believe just didn't make sense.  But it was powerful."

          "Strand might be a madman, but he is brilliant," Addington said softly.

          Stone nodded.  "That man's dangerous."

          "No argument," Alexander agreed, and Peter nodded.

          The former SEAL looked back to Peter, his gaze lingering on his shoulder.  "That happened before I could really knew what was going on; before I realized it wasn't all in my head."

          "Like I told you," Sinclair said, "it wasn't your fault."

          "Maybe, maybe not," Stone replied, "but it was my responsibility, and I won't forget that."

          "You may not, but I have," Peter told him.

          "I spoke to your doctor," Addington told Stone.  "It looks like he'll be cutting you lose the day after tomorrow."

          Stone nodded.  "Can't happen soon enough.  Least I won't have time to starve to death."

          Looking at the man's cinnamon roll and coffee, Alexander smiled.  "I doubt that's going to happen, Mr. Stone.  I'm sure your partners will keep you well-fed."

          "I'm countin' on that."

          Peter sighed and rolled his eyes.  "And I suppose you'll be wanting, what, pizza and beer for lunch?"

          Stone smiled.  "Pete, you're a mind reader.  Think you can pull it off?"

          Sinclair rolled his eyes again.  Partners.  Well, they were worth it – most of the time.

  


* * *

[1]  _Counterstrike_ episode "All in the Game" – Strand kidnaps a research scientist funded by the Addington Group.  Peter, Stone and Gabby go after the scientist, to rescue him and to keep Strand from getting his hands on the scientist's research – cold fusion.  But the team find themselves caught up in a deadly "game", created by Strand in order to torment Addington, and prove to Alexander who the better businessman really was, namely Konrad Strand.  The team beats Strand at his own game and escapes, but so too does Strand.

[2]  Counterstrike episode, "DOA."


End file.
